


The Iceberg (Chipping Away)

by KJGooding



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Isolation and Quarantine Feelings, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, but won't admit it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: While Sherlock makes slow but agonizing progress on a long-distance case from the confines of his armchair, John begins an experiment of his own on his companion.  Just something silly to pass the time, maybe enough to make Sherlock admit he likes having company.  Maybe.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The Iceberg (Chipping Away)

The flat was cool but humid; Sherlock had left the window half-open and the drapes parted, and John had left his teacup sitting on the table for long enough to leave a tacky ring of residue behind. Condensation and a stray dribble of milk. Mrs Hudson had done the shopping, or he would have been content to go without. After she left their bags that morning, Sherlock broke from his concentration to smirk at John, remarking that she was taking pity on them both, and trying to add some meat to their bones.

Since then, though, Sherlock had stayed quiet. And John stayed beside him. There was not much else to do, with the week’s shopping unceremoniously finished for them. Sherlock claimed to be working on a case long-distance, running over facts and figures supplied in emails and text messages, lapsing into complete silence while his mind compensated and built the visual surroundings the case lacked. He had to feel he was physically present, snooping around the victim’s final resting place, superimposing his suspicions onto a waiting audience, like developing film from a dark room. But no, silence and his best mental forgeries would have to suffice this time.

Truthfully, John did not mind sitting beside him. It was not so long ago that they had been introduced - John clearly recalled Sherlock denouncing himself as someone who would not speak for days at a time. It was recently enough that John still had a good deal of unpacking to do, as well, if he could be bothered to go up the stairs to his bedroom. Unpacking seemed menial and ordinary, two feelings John was trying to come to terms with and find a bit of excitement in, but that went rather against the grain. He could not force himself to see adventure in a cardboard box of bed linen. That was all he had to his name, aside from his laptop, which made its own home in the common room across from Sherlock’s favorite seat.

John drummed his fingers around the rim of his teacup. It had long gone cold, but the motion relaxed him, and worked out the tension in his hand. Usually, it was enough to get Sherlock’s attention, too, but he remained preoccupied. John added a sigh to accompany the soft clack-clack-clack of his fingernails, waiting to see if Sherlock wanted to hazard a guess at the last time he’d filed them - or perhaps how long his whole grooming routine had existed as a component of his medical work, how it changed dramatically when the war added cakes of dirt and grit to areas he tried so hard to keep clean, or--

“Sherlock…?” John asked, cautiously. He lifted his hand from the cup to check his wristwatch.

Throughout the silence, Sherlock had been clutching his violin - caressing it, more accurately - stroking the neck with his fingers, finding solace in the perfectly tuned strings, touching the pegs reverently, too gently to disturb their settings. He did not pluck notes with his fingers, though, and the bow had not even been removed from its case. Any music he composed was confined to his mind.

His eyes broke from the strings for a moment, only to lap at John’s like a tide touching the shore, then receding.

“You’re hearing me, aren’t you?” John went on. “It’s, er… it’s a bit late, I think I’d better try to get some sleep.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him again, for an even shorter duration.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, voice low but surprisingly intact.

“So if you need me,” John replied, “I’ll be in my bedroom. Right…”

John steadied himself before standing up, bracing on the armrests, fully aware that the twinge in his leg had dissipated. Maybe he would go upstairs and find somewhere to store his cane. It could take hours to find the right spot, out of immediate access but well within his sight… yes, that sounded like a pleasant use of his evening. Adventurous in its own small way. Reminiscent but not overtly traumatic - the first step in returning to civilian life.

***

Indeed, John spent a little over an hour fussing with his cane. He tightened the handle a bit, checked the scuffs on the rubber stopper, tried to practice the game Sherlock was so fond of. John was like an amatuer, taking pitches from a machine on its mildest setting, volleying them against a padded wall in a sports centre. In this case, he was holding his cane up at different angles studying the scuff marks, discovering just how little wear and tear it had endured in its short lifespan of use. It appeared almost new, as if he had never leaned on it at all. Sherlock, the expert, could likely scrape off dried dirt from the bottom and deduce exactly which train route John had taken home, but John felt pleased enough with his own discovery to call it a night. He leaned it against the back wall of his closet, left open and bare, with only his box of linen on the shelf above it. That would do.

At two in the morning, he finally settled down for bed. At three in the morning, his phone buzzed on the bedside table, and he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before prying them open. His watch-face felt cool and then irritating over his exhausted eyelids; he realized as he read the time that he had forgotten to take it off.

Then he checked his phone, and saw the call was coming from Sherlock. Naturally, it rang out as soon as John touched the screen to unlock it. He had never changed the answerphone from Harry’s, but he didn’t expect Sherlock to leave a message. Instead, John focused on getting out of bed and making a sufficient amount of noise to precede his arrival, so Sherlock would know he was aware and on his way.

When John returned to the common room, Sherlock was precisely where John had left him, with only one noticeable change. He had set down his violin - the case was open beside the base of his chair - but his arm stayed up, poised, and bent under an invisible weight.

“What is it?” John asked; Sherlock did not look at him. “Sherlock? You phoned me, what’s the pr--”

“I’m having trouble focusing,” Sherlock admitted, eyes downcast. “More than half of the kitchen is a blank slate to me. My client won’t send pictures.”

“All right, well… I’m not sure how I can fix that for you. Aren’t they in Sweden?”

“It’s only a matter of clearing my head. Making room for this.”

“Right, fine.”

John sat down in his own recliner, across from Sherlock’s, gently toeing the violin case out of his way, worried about damaging it if he had to stand up abruptly. Something told him Sherlock would need an instant solution to his problem. Oh…

It had been many months since John fell into the unique, proud-yet-humble mood of the attending physician - desperately needed and already volunteering to help in any capacity he could. Sherlock so rarely admitted to needing help in the first place, or perhaps John would’ve felt at home weeks ago, and unpacked his few possessions with more warmth and urgency.

Say it, John urged with his eyes, wanting to feel wanted.

“I need your help,” Sherlock said.

Good.

“Withdrawal can be difficult,” John said, kindly. “But there are solutions for patients of, er, a wide variety of… personalities. Therapy is a fine route to take.”

“I know that. Yes, you’re quite the spokesman. Regardless, you and I both know I’d prefer a practical solution to a psychological one, at this time.”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing a prescription for you, if that’s what you mean. I could help you make an appointment with someone else, but that won’t be a quick fix either. When was the last time you had anything to eat? That’ll help you focus.”

Sherlock did not laugh so much as sigh, just a single burst of hot air through his nostrils, annoyed.

“How many days did you go without sleeping during your residency? Oh, let alone in the field, Doctor? This is my battlefield, it requires my full attention, no matter what day it is. Why, they’d expect you to be just as alert and oriented during your twentieth hour of general surgery as during your first.”

John shrugged and leaned in.

“Point taken. But even you wouldn’t wake a man - a very tired man, since I’m not in the field, any longer - only to make a point. What do you need, Sherlock?”

Sherlock still looked deeply annoyed, as if he would have preferred to remain quiet and conduct this business over text. But since he had chosen to gamble on the ringtone waking John in a timely manner, he had to surrender his voice in exchange. Common decency, pleasantries, something like that. His eyes scanned his arm, vacant without its instrument.

“I don’t want a prescription. Only patches,” Sherlock said. “There’s a box in my bathroom cabinet.”

“Hmm,” John said, standing up again quickly, just as he knew he would. “So no interest in medication, then?”

“No. Not from you, anyway. I do value you beyond your title.”

“You have an odd way of showing it. Of course, I’ll get you your patches.”

John turned over his shoulder, on his walk to Sherlock’s room, always curiously left ajar. He recalled that he still had Sherlock’s bank card, offered with similarly surprising transparency. Sherlock had an odd way of showing many things, then.

“Two should be sufficient,” Sherlock muttered.

“Great. A couple steps would’ve done you some good, but fine, I’ll get them. You need to have something to eat with them, though. Don’t they make you nauseous?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Don’t tell me,” John went on to amuse himself, “nausea’s exciting, hmm? Is that it? Well, at least it reminds you you’re a human being.”

Blindly, he slipped his hand into the cabinet Sherlock had indicated, feeling around before switching on the light and taking a proper look. By Sherlock’s standards of upkeep, it was a relatively normal inventory - no dismembered body parts as far as John could see, no precarious vials of chemicals, no illicit medication bottles whatsoever. He wondered if Sherlock was challenging him to make deductions, leaving his door ajar and his preferred scent of shaving foam and flavor of toothpaste on display, but John could only wade in and tread water. He scooped out the box of patches and returned to the common room.

He returned to Sherlock’s side - to his bent left arm, more precisely - and stooped down to make his offering. But, upon finally opening the box, he found only one patch left inside.

“Sherlock,” John prompted, because he was still staring vacantly forward, “there’s one here, do you want it?”

“Two,” said Sherlock.

Rather than expand on his request, he rolled up the sleeve of his dressing gown, then sharply tugged up the dress-shirt sleeve underneath that, and waited expectantly for John to finish the job.

“Right. There’s one here,” John said, crouching beside what was undoubtedly his most difficult patient to date, and sticking the patch onto his cool skin. “So I’ll just… get you another box, hmm? It’s three in the morning, Sherlock.”

“The chemist’s on Chagford Street is open twenty-four hours,” Sherlock said, shutting his eyes to visualize the location and its signage.

John was fully prepared to protest, but then Sherlock added an almost-genuine-sounding ‘thank you, I’d be lost without you,’ and John subdued the notion he was being played as expertly and impulsively as Sherlock’s violin.

“That’s the truth,” John muttered, instead, and went on his way, pulling on his coat as he went down the stairs.

Ordinarily, a London highstreet after midnight was no place for introspection, but John had become accustomed to filtering out chaos and background noise. He maneuvered through masses of lost tourists, drunken partygoers, exhausted trade-workers, and found the shop Sherlock had referenced. He wondered how healthy it was for himself, never mind for Sherlock, to give into whims like this one. Beyond being obviously physically unsafe, was it emotionally sustainable? What would John’s therapist think, to hear John had endorsed her services not for himself but for another, less broken man? Well, it was hard to gauge Sherlock, that was for sure. It was nice - and it was true - for him to suggest he needed John’s help, but John was capable of being much more useful than an errand-boy. Was it the comfort of feeling needed that drew him in, or was it an opportunity for him to diagnose the unknown in an ever-changing, ever-dangerous landscape? Surely the two were mutually exclusive, they had to be--

Or was it the ‘cash only’ sign hastily written and tacked up above the register?

John sighed and felt for his wallet within his coat pocket. He rarely carried enough cash to buy groceries, let alone to indulge Sherlock’s semi-destructive habits. Maybe Sherlock knew about all this, or maybe he didn’t - either way, John was positive, now, that he was being manipulated. Well, he could play his own hand.

Knowing he could not afford even the generic patches with the cash he had available - but feeling some relief that he would not be forced to pass Sherlock’s card off as his own - he worked his way back through the basic first-aid aisle. Then he found the most basic box of plasters, small and circular, coated in filmy adhesive and pressed with cheap padding. They would do just fine, and the cash he had was more than enough to cover the cost of them - oh, a testament to their poor quality. If Sherlock wanted to exploit John’s help, he was going to be coerced into an experiment, in turn. It was only fair.

John smirked to himself as he paid for the bandages then returned to Baker Street. Again, Sherlock was in the exact same place and pose, although his eyes had sharpened somewhat, due to the resurgence of nicotine in his system. His heart would race and he’d stay awake for another day or so, John realized with a sigh. Well, maybe not. John could be gentle, insistent, guided toward healing others almost to his own detriment.

Sherlock was the same, wasn’t he?

“Did that help at all?” John asked, ready to pull off one of the greatest bluffs of his lifetime, as he slid a plaster from the box and knelt at Sherlock’s side to apply it. He would arrange it in tandem with the genuine nicotine patch, he--

“Somewhat,” Sherlock replied, tensing up suddenly when John touched him.

John made a soft shushing sound, smoothed over the area with his palm in hopes of relaxing Sherlock’s tension again. When he was satisfied, he peeled the back from the plaster, apologized for them being off-brand, the only ones left in stock, and set it in place.

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock droned. “I’ve figured out what cupboard she kept potatoes in.”

“Oh, that’s great,” John tried to sound enthused, as if he had any idea what Sherlock was on about. He was mentally reconstructing the compact, Swedish kitchen where the victim was found, as far as John knew.

“I need to find the knife block. Oh, that’s much better. Thank you, John. Truly.”

“You’re welcome,” he grinned. “I’m going to make myself a cuppa, do you want anything?”

“You’re going to stay here, with me?”

“Of course,” John said, trodding to the kitchen, “if that won’t distract you. There’s no point going back to bed. And I need to make sure you eat something. Or drink, at least.”

“How noble,” Sherlock said, shutting his eyes again.

“Do you take your tea black, Sherlock? Mrs Hudson did the shopping yesterday, so there’s milk if you want it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I don’t want you having straight caffeine and two nicotine patches. Let’s get something more substantial in your system. Milk and sugar it is.”

Sherlock stayed quiet; it was certainly a step above arguing and insisting his precious palace of a body deserved the abuse it was taking. John wasn’t sure how he’d managed at all, on his own. If he wanted help looking after himself he could’ve just asked for it, John thought sourly, before realizing this was exactly what Sherlock had done, just in his own roundabout way.

Once the kettle clicked off, John filled two cups identically with water, flat teabags, a spoon a splash of milk, then a spoon of sugar only in Sherlock’s… he gave a sigh of relief into the rising steam from his mug as he took a sip from it, and brought the other to the table beside Sherlock. He situated his chair in close again, prioritizing use of the table over fear of upsetting Sherlock’s violin case. In fact, he leaned in and closed it, then latched it, and took a cautious glance up at Sherlock’s expression. Fine.

Sherlock seemed sated, if still a bit uncomfortable. He claimed to enjoy an audience, but perhaps he was not accustomed to an audience so interested in his wellbeing, instead of the results alone. He went on staring and thinking, constructing the crime scene inside his mind, apparently oblivious to the fact one of the patches on his outstretched arm was an impostor. John sat in his armchair quietly, found something from the bookshelf to skim through, watch and waiting, and finally allowing himself a private smile of victory - under cover of the open novel he was holding - when he noticed Sherlock pick up his teacup and drain the whole thing in one go.

***

But he still didn’t move much.

The following afternoon, after John had managed to tempt him into finishing a glass of water, he uncrossed his legs only to immediately cross them again in the opposite order. John found himself almost enjoying the lazy domestic routine, strange as it was. He could not see himself enjoying anything truly normal, after all, and he was comfortable knowing Sherlock could snap back into urgency at a moment’s notice. That was what John lived for, himself.

He had finished the interesting passages of the novel, skimmed through to the end, and retrieved his laptop to begin a new blog entry. Writing was more difficult for him than reading was, and as he clacked away at the keys one by one, he caught Sherlock peering at him, with determination.

“Hmm?” John said gently.

“The knife block would’ve been situated to the victim’s right. There must have been a drawer beneath them, with a steel… the knives were expensive, well-maintained…”

“Good,” John remarked, struggling to reconstruct Sherlock’s ideas secondhand. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere. What else do you need to see?”

Sherlock looked down at the floor again.

“The carpet,” he said. “The burglary occurred while Ms Nilsson was preparing a meal… she was interrupted… she would’ve known how to step over the edge of the carpet, unless it was a new addition to the room. Who gives carpets as gifts? There has to be a carpet, why else would she have tripped?”

“I’m not sure,” John admitted. “But it sounds like you’re nearly there.”

“It’s frustrating. If I were there, this would be sorted out in ten minutes, at the most.”

“Not physically there,” John corrected his phrasing. “But you’re close to solving it from all this way away. That’s something to be proud of.”

“I don’t see why the family didn’t contact the Swedish Embassy… Damn”

“What is it?”

“I’ll need another one. After lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Lunch, yes. You were getting up to make yourself a meal, weren’t you? You’re leaning forward.”

“I was going to put my laptop away. You mean you… you want something to eat?”

Sherlock did not reply, but John was not bothered. He made another trip to the kitchen, sorting through the refrigerator for the fancy imports Mrs Hudson had left for them - disguising charity as some allergy to an additive. Even John was onto her by now, but he liked antipasto more than he liked to argue about feeling pitiful. He was past that; he had a flatshare and was on his way to a thrill seeking hobby, and maybe a job, and he had even left his literal crutch behind him. Well, in the closet, easy enough to see and ignore on purpose. A sign of progress. Mrs Hudson had no reason to pity him, and no reason not to be fond of him.

As he considered this, he saw Sherlock reaching for his empty teacup. Then he paused and studied his forearm, where the bunched-up fabric no doubt obstructed some of his blood-flow, and as he slipped his fingers beneath it to give temporary relief, John worried he would notice the false patch. John cleared his throat and unwrapped the appetizer tray more loudly than strictly necessary, and brought it to the side table for Sherlock’s approval.

Sherlock waved off anything to eat - John could let that slide for another day, at most - but did remark on the tannic scent of it all.

“Toscana, isn’t it?” he said softly.

“I think so…” John checked the packaging. “Yes. Looks nice, doesn’t it?”

Then he had an idea, and had to stifle his laughter. Sherlock was already accustomed to the smell, and yet still deeply focused on his casework. John knelt beside the table - between it and Sherlock’s waiting arm - and peeled carefully at the edges of the plaster he had applied the day before. Sherlock did not wince, but his eyes darted down to John’s hands, so John apologized and promised to try a softer approach.

“I’ll just remove these, and get you some new ones. Then you’ll be done with the case in no time,” John explained, standing up again.

Sherlock’s eyes returned to the empty space in front of him, to John’s empty armchair, and he sighed at the interruption.

“The bowl of cotton swabs in my room is only for my work,” Sherlock said, knowing where John was headed and stopping him for a moment. “I don’t care for the texture against my skin. You’ll find a silk towel in the cabinet with my razor. That would be preferable.”

John returned again to the tempting open-book of Sherlock’s bathroom cabinet, glancing at the entire inventory of personal effects, not studying any single item long enough to make deductions of his own. That is, until he spotted the silk towel, aubergine in color and embroidered with Sherlock’s monogram.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a gift from Mycroft,” John observed, as he wet the corner of the towel momentarily beneath the tap.

“It is indeed. Mulberry. Only vain people buy personalized items for themselves.”

“Right, and you’re not like that,” John said, rolling his eyes and amusing himself.

With the towel prepared, he returned his attention to Sherlock’s arm, daubing at the edges of both the patch and the plaster, loosening them until they could be removed without Sherlock noticing at all. It was relatively simple, as far as John’s professional endeavors went, but it was always nice to know he could avoid inflicting pain altogether.

Then the next move of the game began. John fussed with the box of plasters, then the empty box of patches, enough to satisfy Sherlock that he was doing his job. He stuck one plaster on, directly over the ghostly grey line left behind by the previous one - they were cheap and the residue was thick. With the more genuine forgery in place, John could begin the other… the thinly shaved slice of salami. Oh, it was absurd, but he did need a good laugh.

As soon as this was over and the case was solved, he could get it. Until then, though, he had to remain convincingly quiet - attentive and sweet, focused and professional.

He patted the meat dry on the opposite end of Sherlock’s towel, then pressed it into place on Sherlock’s forearm. He smoothed over the area with gentle, practiced fingers, molding the salami patch into place, unintentionally realizing the tension in Sherlock’s muscles. Well, he would have to ignore that for the time being. Instead he stood up and ate another piece, to make the whole charade excusable. He returned to his chair, picked up yesterday’s novel from the armrest, and returned to reading, looking for passages he had previously missed.

Less than thirty minutes later, Sherlock bolted up from his seat, and John watched in uneasy surprise as the salami and the cheap plaster stayed in their assigned places. Sherlock’s dressing gown sleeve was loose enough to come cascading down over them, but John did not see them fall out from beneath it, even as Sherlock began to pace.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked. “I haven’t charged mine in days.”

John provided his mobile from its place in his pocket, and watched Sherlock type frantically, no doubt sending his conclusion of the evidence back to his client in Sweden. When he was finished, he tossed the phone back - soft and underhanded - and John caught it easily.

“Of course they wouldn’t contact the Embassy,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. “Stupid, obvious. Due to its proximity, they could wait for the Embassy to contact me. Why go through the trouble of opening an international police case?”

“Right,” John said, half-following. “You’ve solved it, then?”

“Well, I’m sure a representative from the Embassy will make a ‘routine’ stop by our flat before the week is out, but yes.”

John allowed himself to laugh, stifled and breathy, but it was enough to revoke Sherlock’s confidence.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“You--” John began, pointing his finger in playful accusation.

“I?”

“--solved that case--”

“Yes.”

“--without any nicotine in your system at all. I gave you a plaster bandage and a piece of that Toscano salami,” he said, heightening his accent to mimic Sherlock’s. “And you didn’t even notice!”

“Of course I noticed. An addict in withdrawal always notices a placebo, John. Honestly, the nerve.”

“Come on, Sherlock. Why didn’t you say anything, then, hmm?”

“Because, John,” Sherlock replied, in his most alluring, advantage-taking tone, “I didn’t need nicotine to solve a long-distance case like this. I needed a physical sense of my surroundings. A human connection. Wouldn’t you agree?”

John still thought Sherlock had simply been too self-absorbed to notice, but he was not about to debate Sherlock’s recognition of traits he lacked.

“I would.”

“I have never found anyone’s help more valuable, in that particular area, than yours,” Sherlock added, and whether John was being moved like a pawn or not, he could not dispute how nice the words felt.

Sherlock rifled under his robe sleeve for the stray piece of salami, unrolled it from his skin, and tossed it into the bin.

“I still don’t think you knew,” John decided to repeat the sentiment. “You just won’t admit to being wrong about anything.”

“No, because I rarely am wrong. We all have our own areas of expertise, John.”

Sharply, Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to face the kitchen, clapping his hands together once and holding them tight as he proceeded forward.

“Now… what would you like for tea? I mean, other than to see me eat something - you couldn’t be less transparent about that if you tried,” he spoke quickly, and John was confident all was well again.

“Whatever you’re making is fine,” John said, before abruptly recalling all the chemistry and anatomy projects Sherlock stored in the kitchen, like a minefield. “I think.”

He could hear the refrigerator door releasing pressure as it opened, then the echoes of glass touching glass as Sherlock sorted through its contents.

“Mrs Hudson does spoil us, doesn’t she?” Sherlock went on. “I did mention we’d both be hard at work, which she obviously took to heart. Did you know that her late husband never appreciated her providing for him, like this? He had expensive tastes, but didn’t like her doing the shopping or the cooking, no, he preferred to go out for his meals. He didn’t like her to make anything for him.”

“Whatever you’re making is fine,” John repeated, warmly.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason it seems Sherlock is the exact kind of content I needed to return to during this strange time of self-isolation. The comfortable but stifling flat at 221B, the hesitant warmth of John and Sherlock in the early stages of their association, sold-out solutions and last-minute pranks to pass the time... it felt nice and soothing to put this together, despite being away from the fandom for ten years or so. I do hope you enjoy this as much as I did <3


End file.
